


drinking whiskey after dark

by blaketrash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellarke Bingo, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, No Smut, One Night Stands, Strangers to Lovers, clarke is grumpy and bellamy is a sweetheart, loosely based on a movie two night stand, quarantine au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaketrash/pseuds/blaketrash
Summary: On Friday night Clarke matches up with some guy on a hookup app Raven made her install.On Saturday morning, the city council of Arkadia issues a lockdown for the next 48 hours until they come up with other measures to prevent further spreading of the virus.That’s how Clarke’s first ever one night stand turns into a three-night stand with a guy who’s name she refuses to remember.writen forbellarkebingo
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 52
Kudos: 266
Collections: Bellarke Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote like 17 pages of the first draft of the entire story in April before I even finished [Shortcuts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191180/chapters/55514791) , and then I couldn’t get myself to edit or write anything until a few days ago. That’s why it’s March and only the beginning of the pandemic in the story.
> 
> The title is from the song ['Sad boy with a guitar'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjGER11JZzY) by Ollie MN. The song is, as far as I know, mostly satire, and the full lyrics are actually "maybe some girl broke your heart and you’ve been drinking whiskey after dark", but that was way too long for a title. 
> 
> Also, I know this whole lockdown/quarantine explanation is a little bit weird but stick with me.

It was supposed to be a casual thing. No commitment, no names, just sex. 

Clarke was never good at casual, she liked labels and knowing exactly what she’s getting herself into. She always did her best to keep her boxes separate: friends in her friendship box, romantic partners in her relationship box, and she kept internet strangers away from any of her boxes. It was a system that mostly worked. Until it didn’t.

On this particular mid-March Friday evening, Clarke was getting ready for a girls' night out, blasting pop music, and trying out different outfits when the plans suddenly changed.

“I’m so sorry! We’ll make it up to you, I promise,” Raven yells from the hallway. She’s been running around the apartment for the last half an hour in a rush to get ready in time. “Maybe we can go out tomorrow?”

“I have a term paper to write tomorrow night,” Clarke replies, throwing herself on the living room couch with a sigh. 

Her friend’s head pokes through the door frame. “You always have a paper to write! Live a little, Clarke!”

“I wanted to, but _someone_ just canceled all of my plans,” she tells her roommate, glaring at her angrily as she bents down to take off her heels. She definitely won’t need them anymore. Not to mentioned the eyeliner she spent half an hour putting on for, as it turns out, absolutely no reason.

“I’m sorry! It’s just that Miles has to go home tomorrow, and then Murphy said I was making up the guy, so I invited Emori and him to join us. And then Harper and Monty got involved, and now we’re all going,” Raven explains, catching Clarke roll her eyes at her before turning her attention to her phone. “You can still come if you want to. It wouldn’t be _that_ weird.”

She scoffs. “And be the seventh wheel on your group date?” 

“First of all: Shaw and I are not a couple,” Raven points out firmly.

“ _Sure._ ”

Her friend ignores her sarcastic remark, continuing her speech instead. “And second of all: Jasper and Maya are still a ‘maybe’,” Raven comments nonchalantly, crouching down on the floor to dig through the jewelry box on the coffee table.

“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to be a _ninth_ wheel tonight,” Clarke murmurs more to herself. “I wanted to have a cool night with my girls, not attend a swingers meeting.”

“Clarke, you won’t be a ninth wheel; you’re our friend,” Raven says as she puts on a pair of hoop earrings Clarke had never seen her wear before. “Tell me, how is this any different than when we normally hang out?”

“You’re usually alone just like me,” Clarke says matter-of-factly. “But you had to ruin it and find a boyfriend.”

Her friend holds up a finger to correct her. “Shaw and I are still casual. He’s definitely not my ‘ _boyfriend’,_ ” she explains, pronouncing the b-word with absolute disgust as she gets up from the floor and straightens her dress. Clarke knows it’s all an act; Raven pretending not to need anyone ever, that she can go through anything all by herself, when, in reality, she doesn’t have to. 

Then again, Clarke’s the same way. And in no position to judge.

“Whatever,” she mutters, turning her attention back to her phone. She deletes all the notifications for missed calls from her mother and continues to skip through Instagram stories of her friends without paying much attention to the images on the screen.

“Let’s say he somehow actually he becomes my ‘boyfriend’ or whatever, how will you hang out with us then?”

“Oh my god, Raven, you’re right,” Clarke says, dramatically slapping her own leg as she meets her friend’s eye. “I can’t hang out with any of you ever again. I think I might have to find an entirely new group of friends.”

She’s only half-joking. It’s just that hanging out with just four other couples, even though they’re her best friends in the world, sounds like a nightmare tonight.

“Or you could just find someone you like and bring them?” Her friend raises her eyebrows suggestively.

“Ah yes, it’s _that_ easy,” she says wistfully as she lays back on the couch.

“I know you _think_ you prefer to be alone ever since Lexa broke up with you-,” Raven starts, and Clarke rolls her eyes. She can’t take this lecture right now. Not tonight. And not from Raven of all people.

“I broke up with her,” Clarke fake coughs.

It’s a lie. At best, hers and Lexa’s breakup was mutual.

Raven shoots her a dirty look,“-but you can’t sit at home and mope for the rest of your life.”

Clarke throws her arms up in protest. “I don’t do that! I go out!”

“Lectures and coffee shops don’t count,” Raven tells her, turning her back just in time to miss the middle finger Clarke is holding up.

“Where’s my red jacket?” The girl asks from the hallway.

“I put it in your closet!” Clarke yells back just as her friend digs it out of the wardrobe and throws it on. She looks up from her phone to scan her friend up and down. “It doesn’t match.”

“You’re right,” Raven says as she twirls around, checking herself out in the floor-length mirror. She tries a few poses, stuffing her hands in the jacket pockets, then taking them out before she finally frowns dramatically. Clarke has a feeling she knows where this is going.

“Can I borrow your black leather jacket?” Raven turns to Clarke, knowing full well her roommate doesn’t share clothes.

Clarke only scowls as a reply.

“I’ll wash the dishes for the next two weeks.”

“Ha!” Clarke scoffs. “We both know you won’t.”

If there wasn’t for Clarke cleaning up and putting everything back into its place, their apartment would look like a dump. No matter how brilliant Raven is, that girl needs to learn to clean up after herself. But, in her defense, it’s not that she doesn’t want to clean up, it’s just that she gets so distracted by her work and doesn’t notice the mess until it gets unbearable.

“Please?” Raven presses on. “It would go so much better with this dress, and I really want to look good tonight.”

“ _Why_?” Clarke asks. “Is there anything special about tonight?”

They both know what she’s referring to. This is the fifth time Raven is going out with Shaw, and tonight she’s also introducing him to most of her close friends. It’s got to mean something. They’re most definitely becoming more serious, perhaps they might even start using the words ‘official’ and ‘exclusive’ soon after tonight.

“No,” Raven lies. “I just feel like it.”

Clarke raises her eyebrow in suspicion.

“Can’t a girl want to look good for herself?”

Why is she trying her best to act nonchalant? How can she pretend not to care, but also spend ten times the usual amount of time getting ready? Why couldn’t she just admit it? There’s no shame in wanting to look good for a guy, especially not if the guy is as into you as Shaw is into Raven.

“Fine,” Clarke concedes, and Raven celebrates by running up to the couch and throwing her arms around Clarke in gratitude.

“It’s been months, Clarke.”

‘Five months to this day, precisely’, Clarke thinks to herself.

“You should find someone new,” Raven says as soon as they break away from the hug, her voice somber.

Clarke shrugs.“Where?” Her tone is not as nearly as hopeless as she actually feels. Clarke’s only twenty-two and already with a trail of past relationships that ended so badly that, on some days, Clarke feels like she would rather walk across the street and get hit by a car, than bump into them on the street and have to exchange a few meaningless words with them.

“Give me your phone,” her friend tells her, sitting down beside her and taking the phone from her hands. Clarke watches from behind her shoulder as she unlocks the phone, opens the app store and types in ‘ _Dropship’_.

“Is there an app that could just materialize my soulmate at my doorstep?”

“No, but there is an app where you can find a casual hook up,” Raven says, tapping something on the screen before pressing the download button.

“Why would I want that?”

“Step one: forget your ex with meaningless sex,” she says, shoving Clarke her phone back.

“No,” Clarke objects.

“Yes,” her friend insists. “First, you learn how dating actually works nowadays and have fun some with it. Maybe you’ll even end up meeting someone you actually like,” she says, winking.

“I don’t do one night stands.”

“You do now.” 

“Absolutely not,” she protests again. “Also, it’s not safe with the pandemic and everything that’s been going. I don’t want to get a virus from some person I don’t even know.” 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Clarke, there are like zero cases in Arkadia.”

Clarke holds up a finger to correct her friend: ”Zero _confirmed_ cases.”

”Oh my God!” Raven groans as she pulls herself up from the couch. “I love you, but you’re so annoying sometimes,” she tells Clarke as she grabs her black leather jacket from the hanger. She puts it on and, although Clarke wouldn’t admit it, it looks so much better on her.

Raven walks over to the mirror to fix her lipstick. ”There's probably gonna be a lockdown in a week or two, and then you'll have to sit inside anyway. I say you should live a little while you can,” she says after a moment.

”That's extremely unsafe,” Clarke points out. She’s still lounging on the couch, too lazy to get up and change into something more comfortable. She’s already refreshed her Instagram feed three times in the last five minutes.

“You can always find an excuse not to do something.”

Clarke has no idea how to respond to that, so she waves at her friend instead. “Have fun tonight without me.”

Raven rolls her eyes as she reaches for the door. ”Whatever. Don't do it then,” she says as she slips out of the apartment, locking the doors behind her.

“I won’t! Clarke yells after the doors are already closed shut. Instead of getting up, taking off all the make-up, and getting started on her Developmental Biology paper, she continues endlessly scrolling and switching from an app to an app until she finds herself staring at the ‘Dropship’ app icon and waging her options.

Option number one: she could try to start writing that paper, give up halfway through, and fall asleep watching some stupid Netflix show.

Option number two: she could take Raven’s advice and actually give the ‘Dropship’ app a shot.

The second option, although it sounds more fun, makes her incredibly nervous. It’s not that Clarke never tried casual sex before, it’s just that the one time she tried it- she ended up with a broken heart. But maybe it was her fault for catching feelings. Maybe a one night stand with a stranger won’t end that way, especially if she leaves straight after sex and learns as little as possible about the other person. Maybe that way it could work.

Surprising herself with her decision, Clarke clicks on the app, but before it completely loads, she drops her phone on the couch and heads to the kitchen to pour herself some alcohol. Once she’s back on the couch with a glass of whiskey in her hand, she finally creates her profile. She doesn’t put her actual name and information. She picks a few photos from her Instagram, writes the shortest bio she could think of, and then starts swiping. After two hours of laying on the couch, sipping shitty whiskey, and exchanging awkward messages with a bunch of horny strangers, she stumbles upon a guy she doesn’t hate as much as the rest: James, 24.

He seems attractive enough. Curly hair, broad shoulders, nice smile, freckles. 

This whole hooking up with a stranger thing doesn’t seem so impossible anymore, not when a stranger looks as good as this.

She hesitates but decides not to read his bio, the less she knows about him, the better. 

She types out: ‘ _hi’_.

After a minute, he texts back: ‘ _Hey’_.

Their exchange doesn’t last long until he asks: ‘ _Your place or mine?_ ’

No way is she inviting a stranger she met online into her home. Her cheeks are burning red when she texts back: ‘ _yours_.’

He texts her his address after that. She forwards it to Raven just to be safe. Raven responds two minutes later with three kissing emojis and two confetti emojis. Clarke hopes her roommate didn’t just share with their entire friend group that Clarke’s ditched them and is instead going to hook up with some random stranger.

The cab ride is not long comparing to the time it takes Clarke to find this guy’s apartment. She hopes he’s worth it.

He welcomes her with a glass of red wine. They don’t chat much before he kisses her.

One moment, they’re sitting on his couch, she’s telling him about her day, and it’s weird because they’re acting as if they’re not complete strangers. He’s nodding along and looking at her intently with his big brown eyes, acting like the story she’s telling actually interests him. She wonders if she should make the first move, he looks like he’d be a good kisser and she doesn’t want to wait much longer. There’s a second of silence when she takes another sip of wine, and her eyes fall down to his lips. The next moment, their eyes lock and, like he read her mind, his hands fly up to caresses her cheek for a second before he kisses her slowly. She likes it more than she’d like to admit.

When Clarke wakes up, she’s in an unfamiliar bed. All alone. Her phone reads 1:34 pm, and there are dozens of unread messages and missed calls on her phone that she ignores as she jumps up from the bed. She hadn’t slept properly for the last few months and somehow picked the worst time ever to oversleep.

“Fuck,” she mutters a few times as she throws on her clothes in a rush. She picks up her belongings, trying not to drop anything as she rushes to the hallway and reaches for the front door.

“Leaving so soon?” She hears the voice say from the room at the other end of the hallway. The guy from last night, whatever his name is, is sitting behind his dining room table, typing something on his laptop before he looks up to meet her eyes. 

Clarke takes a deep breath before she starts: “Hey,” she smiles awkwardly. Why couldn’t he just pretend not to see hew leave? “Look, I don't know how this usually goes for you, but I-”

"Usually?” He asks, tilting his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses laid until a moment ago. 

She can already feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Yeah,” she sighs. “I don't know if girls usually leave at the break of the dawn or as soon as you're done with them or whatever, but I guess I overslept my welcome, and I'm leaving now, so you don't have to worry.”

"Claire,” he calls as he pushes himself up from his chair.

"Yeah, that's not my name, but you don't need to know that, so-" she tosses her coat over her shoulder, grabbing the doorknob with her other hand, "-bye."

"Claire, I don’t think you-"

"I told you already that's not my name, so don't call me that," she whips around, starting to get frustrated, only to find him standing a meter away from her in gray sweatpants and a simple white shirt, his hair a curly mess. So much different than the fancy button-down and the gelled hair he wore last night. Somehow still equally hot.

He laughs at her, and for a second she’s taken aback. What the fuck is happening?

"No shit it's not your name. James isn't my real name either,” the guy tells her. “My real name is B-" but Clarke cuts him off before he’s finished. She doesn’t need to know that, not when she’s trying to leave his apartment and never see him again.

"Sorry, but I don't care," she says. “I'm leaving,” she repeats as she tries to push the door open, but it won’t budge. If he wanted to murder her, he could’ve done that while she was sleeping.

“Wow.” He crosses his arms on his chest, an amused smile on his lips. If she weren’t so frustrated and occupied with trying to leave, she’d definitely take another moment to appreciate his good looks. “I just didn't know what else to call you," he explains casually. He’s standing right in front of Clarke now, so close that she can smell his shower gel. She wants to hate his scent. She wants to hate him, and never see his stupid, handsome face ever again.

The words come out before she can control herself. "How about you don't call me at all?"

He takes a deep breath as he runs his fingers through his curly hair, looking more bored than offended. “Look, princess, I don’t know what I did to you to deserve-”

“You didn’t do anything, okay? It’s not about you. _I_ just want to leave!” She snaps at him, interrupting him again. "Can you please unlock this damn door now?"

The guy in front of her shrugs."Why?"

" _Why_? So I can go home and never see you again." 

Oops, perhaps she shouldn’t have said that out loud.

"You should’ve really checked the news before you stared this obnoxious act of yours,” he tells her, the smile disappearing from his face. “You can't go anywhere. We're in quarantine at least until Monday morning."

"You're shitting me," she says with an exasperated sigh.

But he's not. When Clarke finally checks all the unread messages on her phone, most of them are about the lockdown that went into effect this morning. Raven texted her five times since this morning to check up on her and tell her the news. There are a couple of messages about the lockdown in their group-chat as well. There are also three messages form her mother from last night that Clarke has no intention of opening.

"Well, I can't stay here," she announces, slipping her phone back into her purse. 

She’s still standing in the hallway at the exact same spot, but the guy is now slumped against the wall, looking annoyed with this entire situation.

“Really?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "Why is that?" She’s been an asshole to him the entirety of their conversation, why is he still this patient with her? If it were the other way around, Clarke would have kicked his ass out of her apartment ages ago.

"Because you're starting to really irritate me,” she tells him as she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, an obvious tell that she’s lying. But _he_ doesn’t know that. “Look, I've made a mistake last night. I've learned my lesson: one night stands might be for people like you, but not for me.”

He cocks his head, and one curl drops over his forehead. Something about the way he’s looking at her cause a memory of her running her fingers through his hair last night to resurface for a second. "Who are ‘people like me’?"

Clarke rolls her eyes at his question. As if he doesn’t hook up with random girls regularly. "I just want to go home," she tells him, her voice almost a whine.

"In this lockdown?"

"Yes!"

He folds his arm on his chest again. "You know you could get arrested for that, right?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

He leans slightly closer to her as his lips turn into a smirk. "I'm intrigued."

"Don't be," she tells him. "Just unlock the goddamn door."

"Whatever," he brushes past her arm to barely even push the door, and they swing wide open. They weren’t even locked, and she threw a tantrum like a spoiled five-year-old. How embarrassing.

"Good luck getting home, princess," he tells her, and when she doesn’t respond he calls after her: “It was lovely having sex with you!”

“Oh, I wish I could say the same!” She yells back, rushing to get away from him and his apartment as quickly as she can, hoping he doesn’t notice her cheeks still blushing bright red.

Clarke is pretty sure the hallway in this guy’s building is built like a fucking labyrinth. Every wall at every turn looks exactly the same, and she takes too many turns before she finally spots the elevator. As soon as she presses the button to call up the elevator, a police officer walks out of the nearest apartment. She doesn’t pay much attention to that. She doesn’t even think about the virus, the lockdown, and how nobody’s allowed to go outside. And then he addresses her, and her blood freezes.

“Excuse me, miss,” the officer waves in an attempt to get her attention.

She’s absolutely fucked.

“May I ask where you’re going?” He asks.

“Home?” She offers her tone unsure.

‘Please don’t ask any more questions. Please just let me go home’, she thinks.

“And that is?” He raises his eyebrows questioningly when her Jedi mind tricks don’t work. “Somewhere in this building, I suppose?”

“No,” her voice cracks, “a couple blocks away.” It’s a lie. Her apartment is almost on the other side of the city.

“Do you have a permit to go out?”

Of course she doesn’t. She can bet her mother would be able to get her one, but that would require Clarke to speak with her mom, which she has no plans of doing anytime soon.

“No.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave this building. I don’t know if you saw the news this morning, but the city council issued a lockdown,” the police officer tells her, and she pretends like this is the first time she’s hearing about it. “The entire city is in quarantine for the weekend until it’s decided what further measures to take. As of this morning, nobody’s allowed to go outside until 5 am on Monday.”

She looks around the hallway, unsure, wrapping her arms around herself. “So, where am I supposed to go?”

“Why don’t you go back to whoever you were visiting here?” He suggests.

“No, no, that’s not an option,” Clarke explains with a sweet smile that usually gets her out of trouble. “To be perfectly honest,” she reads his tag, “officer Miller, I just had a one night stand, and I can’t, that’s not for me, I can’t go back there. I have to go home.” She flutters her eyebrows a couple of times for good measure. This usually works.

Officer Miller smiles back at her. “Well, miss-?”

“Griffin,” she says, nodding her head.

Here we go, it’s working; he’ll let her off the hook.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave this building, miss Griffin,” he repeats, and Clarke tries her hardest not to let her disappointment show.

The elevator dings and the automatic doors open in front of them, but Clarke’s not sure what to do. The two of them stand there, staring awkwardly at the empty elevator before the officer turns to her. “I might have a solution for you, actually,” he says suddenly. “If you’re so against going back to that, ehm, gentleman from last night, that is.”

“Yes?” She’s desperate.

“My son has a friend in the building that’s around your age, he’s a wonderful young man, wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know him since he was this tall-” he raises his hand up to to the height of his waist, “he and my son were the best of friends growing up. Little rascals were always running around, causing trouble. My wife and his mother spent hours running after them, but they could never catch up,” he reminiscences with a grin on his face. Clarke fakes a cough to get his attention back. “Anyway, he might let you crash with him if you really need a place to stay here.”

“I don’t know if that's,” she starts to protest, but her voice trails off. How does this make sense? If the lockdown is about preventing the spread of the virus, why does this guy seem to think that putting her in close quarters with some random guy would be a good idea? Why can’t he just let her go home? He could’ve just offered her a ride home in his police car or something.

“He’s a wonderful young man, and I trust he would make a great host.” This is the second time he’s used the adjective ‘wonderful’ to describe the guy. Even if he was the best fucking person in the world, she’d still much rather go home.

The automatic elevator door closes in front of them, and they stand in silence while she thinks about it: accepting this offer might be better than nothing, at least she can try to sneak off in an hour again or so. Or maybe the guy will say no, and there would be no other solution than to let her go home.

“Okay,” she says. “I guess that could work.’’

They walk through the hallway for a minute, Clarke a few steps behind the police officer, until he finally stops in front of a door and rings the bell. Clarke wonders if all the doors look the same in this building, or is it just this one that’s oddly familiar.

Then the door opens, and Clarke doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

”Officer Miller, to what do I owe this pleasure?” The guy from last night stands by the door, his eyes only briefly fly over Clarke’s figure before he returns his full attention back to the cop.

Of course it’s him. It makes total sense. She had consistently bad luck since this morning. How could she think that would just change all of a sudden?

“Hey son, how are you doing?” Officer Miller greets him by shaking his hand.

“Never been better,” the guy responds, shaking the officer’s hand for an obnoxiously long time, still widely grinning.“How are you? How are Nathan and the missus?”

“She has the sniffles, probably allergies,” he answers delightedly, “and Nathan was at Jackson’s when this lockdown began, but I trust that he’s doing perfectly fine.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear,” the guy from last night responds.

"Anyway Bellamy,” the officer tells him, drawing attention to Clarke who’s standing a few meters away with her arms crossed, trying not to seem as uncomfortable as she feels. “This is miss Griffin, she found herself in a bit of a situation and needs a place to stay until Monday morning. Could you, by any chance, take her in?"

‘Take her in’? As if she’s a lost puppy looking for a shelter during a snowstorm.

The guy from last night finally turns to Clarke with a shit-eating grin on his face. Clarke feels like she could die from the awkwardness. "Of course."

”Great! I just can’t let her go outside in all this chaos.” The guy from last night doesn’t take his eyes off her as the police officer continues: “I trust you’ll be good company?”

“You can count on me, officer Miller.”

“Great! I'll leave you to get to know each other. I have to get to work,” he says as he starts to slowly walk away, leaving them behind at the doorstep. “Don’t let her leave!”

“I won’t! Have a good one!” The guy calls after him. Then, quietly and with the hint of laughter, he adds to Clarke: “Can’t believe you got caught.”

Clarke nudges him with her arm before she manages another weak “thank you” to the police officer. They watch him disappear in the hallway labyrinth just after he turns to check up on them one last time. As soon as he’s out of sight, the guy from last night turns back to Clarke.

"So, miss Griffin,” he says her last name like it brings him immense amusement to tease her, “my name's Bellamy," he says, extending his hand towards her.

"It’s Clarke," she tells him, accepting his hand in defeat.

"I think I liked ‘princess’ better," Bellamy comments, flashing her another bright smile before walking back into his apartment. “But your name’s not bad either, definitely better than Claire.”

"I already forgot yours," she mutters as she follows him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> For any comments or constructional criticism you can reach out to me on tumblr ([gansxythethird](https://gansxythethird.tumblr.com)) or write down in the comments! Thank you so much! ♥


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the wait. Hope you enjoy this one.♥

The guy from last night is at the opposite end of his long wooden dining room table, entirely engrossed in his laptop. They’ve been sitting in complete silence for at least half an hour now. Or, more accurately, Clarke has been quiet for at least an hour, and it’s been half an hour since the guy stopped trying to start conversations with her by saying stuff like “just your luck, running into a cop before even leaving the building.” Or “did you know that officer Miller is actually my best friend’s dad?” Or asking her if she feels awkward to be sitting here with him. Of course she feels awkward, at one point he just read her the numbers of confirmed corona cases in the cities closest to Arkadia.

In the meantime, Clarke has been persistently ignoring his attempts by either staring at her phone without saying a word or looking around his oddly furnished apartment.

In this room, all the walls are covered with old wooden bookshelves so much that it looks like a fucking library. What Clarke finds most interesting is that, besides the shelves, there’s also at least one book lying around at every other surface in the room. Her favorite is the one on the kitchen counter, right by the sink. What an absurd place to leave a book lying around opened.

As far as Clarke can tell, most of them are old history books on various emperors or kings from around the world. She would ask if he has a thing for emperor Augustus, judging by the number of books with his name on the covers, but she doesn’t want to appear interested. She’s leaving soon, she’s decided that a long time ago.

So far, she has no actual plan. How is she supposed to leave, without getting caught before she gets home, is beyond her, and it's only becoming more and more impossible with every minute that passes by. But still, she hasn't even taken her jacket or her shoes off, as if she’s leaving any moment now. It’s not convincing anyone, and Clarke knows it.

”So apparently, the entire country is functioning just fine, it's just our stupid city council that decided we need this lockdown,” she says, finally, after reading a third news article Raven had sent to their group chat in the last ten minutes. It's not looking so good for her escape plan.

“Well,” the guy from last night starts as he takes a break from typing something on his laptop, “there were a lot of new cases in Polis the last couple of days, and that’s only one town over. I guess they want to isolate as many people as they can before the virus spreads.”

‘I know’, Clarke wants to say, ‘you read me the fucking stats half an hour ago.’

But instead, she just shakes her head. “They’re idiots.”

The guy grimaces, still immersed in the screen in front of him. “You don't think that's surprisingly responsible for them?”

“I think they're all a bunch of assholes. Who cares if it's responsible? They should have given people a heads up a couple of days before. If, for nothing else, then so they wouldn't find themselves in an uncomfortable position like this one when the lockdown starts,” she tells him before turning her attention back to her phone.

“They said it a few hours before the lockdown took effect, you just slept through it,” she hears him mumble.

She rolls her eyes, scrolling through her Instagram feed for the fifth time as if the posts somehow changed in the last two minutes. She might be bored out of her mind by seeing the exact same photos of her college friends on a night out, but at least she appears busy. And that’s the only way to get this guy to stop talking to her.

“They’re still assholes,” she mutters.

“It’s like you’re _personally_ offended by their choice,” he notes absently, before adding: “I don’t get it. Is your mom on the city council or something?”

“What?”

Clarke’s entire body stiffens as she looks up from her phone. “How did you-?”

He’s finally looking up at her, covering his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his laugh. “I googled your name,” he tells her as if it was obvious. “But I like how worried you were when you thought I was psychic.”

“Oh.” 

She didn’t think he’s psychic, she thought he was a creep. And possibly a stalker.

For a moment she’s relieved until another thing pops into her head:

“Why would you do _that_?”

He shrugs. “Gotta make sure I wasn't inviting a murderer into my home.”

Clarke smirks. “I might be lying about my name.”

“That's true,” he points out, “but the probability of you lying twice seemed too low to not at least check.”

“And what did you find out?” She asks, folding her arms on her chest in a challenge. “Am I a murderer?”

“Inconclusive. Most of the stuff is about your mom.”

“ _Cool_ ,” she says sarcastically. “You know why I didn't google you?” She asks, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her knuckles.

“Because you already forgot my name?” He straightens up, mirroring her. “And, because I didn't give you my last name, so you have nothing to work with?” He adds with a smile. 

He thinks he’s so clever. 

"Your last name is on your front door, _genius,_ " Clarke tells him. 

Of course she noticed it. ‘Blake.’ It’s not a bad last name. 

"And, I didn't Google you because _I don't care,_ " she adds coldly, meeting his eye.

He studies her for a moment, his eyes in a slight squint before he frowns, puts his glasses back on, and turns back to his laptop.

“What?”

He looks up, his mouth parted. “ _What_?” He asks, confused.

“What was that?” Clarke repeats.

“What was _what_?”

She sighs. “Don’t act dumb now.”

“Okay,” he says, meeting her eye again. “You know what I think?” His voice is low, challenging.

“Oh _please,_ ” she says sarcastically, “ do enlighten me.”

“I think this whole I-don’t-care-about-anything and I-just-want-to-leave thing that you’re doing is all an act. I’m not saying you want to stay, I just think you’re exaggerating,” he tells her.

She leans away from the table.

He doesn’t stop there.

“You’re definitely not always this grumpy, and I don’t think I did anything to provoke you, so my guess is that this whole persona you’re putting out is just a facade.” 

Clarke can't help herself not to roll her eyes at his words.

“Maybe I’m wrong, maybe you are just a mean person, but somehow, for whatever reason, I don’t think that’s true,” he carries on. “I just think you feel like you need to build up walls around you just to prove that you’re tough and untouchable.” His eyes are still locked on hers as if he’s waiting to see if he should go on, or if he already hit the spot.

She looks away, not wanting to watch him gloat.

“Screw you.”

He might be right, but it doesn’t mean he knows her.

He lets out an exasperated sigh before he pushes himself up from his chair. “Do you want coffee? Or something to eat?” He asks in a much lighter tone.

“Sure.”

As he stands up, he takes his phone with him, typing out something as he moves around the kitchen. After a couple of minutes, just as he places two mugs on his counter, he speaks up:

“Ah, here we go, finally: Clarke Griffin, daughter of Arkadia city council member candidate Abigail Griffin, is our bright new talent in the art classroom! A shining star among her peers,” he reads with a grin on his face, gesticulating widely with the hand in which he’s holding a full coffee pot.

“What?” Clarke’s still too lost in her own thoughts on the previous monologue, wanting to scream ‘you don’t know me’ at him, to register what he’s saying.

“Where's that from?”

“I don't know,” he admits, turning the screen towards her so that she can see a photo of herself in a painting smock that's twice her size. Her cheeks are red, she's wearing pigtails, and goofily smiling at the camera.

“You look ten-ish?” He suggests, scratching his chin.

“I was thirteen,” Clarke corrects him.

It's been a while since she's last seen this photo. Her dad had it framed in his office.

Seeing it now only reminds her of the exact day it was taken and the bossy interviewer who wrote the article, and that kept insisting they put some make-up on Clarke, even though she was still a literal child. It was the first time she had to endure anything like that just so her mom could score some meaningless political points.

“Oh, wow. Painting, huh?” The guy asks, putting down a mug in front of her and pouring coffee into it. “You still do that?”

“No,” she admits, avoiding his eye.

He looks genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“Because I have more important things to do with my life.”

She expects him to mock her further, but all he says is: “Too bad, you got potential.”

“Yeah, well, doesn't matter now,” she says, pursing her lips.

‘Move on. Talk about anything else. Go back to monologuing about what kind of person I am,’ Clarke thinks. ‘Just let it go.’

He doesn’t.

“You can always try to find time for hobbies, it might be fun to try stuff you haven’t done in a while,” he suggests excitedly, now placing a plate full of pancakes in front of her nose. When did he have time to make this?

“Just drop it, Bellamy, okay?” She snaps suddenly. It comes out a bit harsher than she meant it.

She waits for his reaction, and he meets her eye, giving her a tight-lipped smile. “You _do_ know my name,” he says lightly as he leans back into his chair. 

“Your coffee is shit.”

She can see the corner of his mouth curl a bit. 

“There’s sugar on the counter,” he points without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

She smooths down her skirt, drags her feet over to the counter, and grabs the sugar before getting back into her chair, across the table from his.

He only briefly glances at her from behind his computer screen. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to change? You can also take a shower if you want,” Bellamy offers, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I can give you a pair of my sweatpants or something else to wear.”

Clarke puts two teaspoons of sugar in her coffee, making sure to stir it loudly. “I don’t need to change because I’m leaving soon,” she tells him matter-of-factly, bringing the cup up to her mouth.

“ _Right,_ ” he says, smiling down at his screen, “I’m sure you are.”

“I _am_ ,” she insists.

“I said I’m sure you are.”

She exhales loudly through her nose. He doesn’t look up. 

“Are you always this obnoxious about everything?” Clarke asks him.

Bellamy chuckles. “I just don’t think that skirt is particularly comfortable for you to wear around the house for two more days,” he explains as he types away on his laptop. She’d ask what it is that he’s always writing, but she can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she’s taken interest in anything that has to do with him.

“No thanks,” she decides.

Without any warning, he’s up on his feet. “I’ll leave a pair up on my dresser and a towel for you if you change your mind,” he announces.

“I said I don’t need it,” Clarke calls after him, but he’s already gone. “I’m going home,” she says to the empty room. 

This is the first time she’s fully aware it’s a lie.

Clarke groans, moving from the chair and throwing herself on Bellamy’s couch. He’s right, she’s going to be stuck here for another two days. She might as well get comfortable. 

She whips out her phone to text Raven about how she shouldn’t have taken her advice or should’ve at least snuck out right after sex last night. She pours all of her frustration in a single text and, after a few minutes of laying around and eating in silence, Clarke’s phone finally dings with a response.

It’s a message from Raven, and all it says is: ‘ _Is he that bad?’_

If Clarke was being completely honest with herself, she’d say ‘no’. Even though this guy might be a pain in her ass, at least he’s trying to be polite and helpful. Also, he’s hot. _Insanely hot._ He makes decent pancakes and not-actually-bad coffee. If she had to get locked up with some random guy, this might as well be the best-case scenario. 

But there’s no way she would admit it to herself, let alone another person. 

And she also can’t let her friend think she’s in any kind of danger either.

‘ _Not that bad,’_ Clarke texts back. ‘ _Really annoying_.’ She stares at the screen, tapping her fingers on the side of her phone, before adding: ‘ _I’ll probably survive, but I’ll never fully forgive you.’_

‘ _That sucks,’_ Raven responds much quicker this time. _‘At least he’s not a weirdo.’_

Clarke thanks God for that. 

Another text from Raven pops up: ‘ _Is he hot?’_

‘ _Yes,_ ’ Clarke types out, and even though it’s just a text, and it’s no secret she slept with him, she can feel her cheeks burn. She needs to change the subject immediately. _‘How was your group date last night?’_

‘ _You really didn’t miss much,’_ Raven replies simply.

Clarke pushes it more. _‘How did everyone like Miles?’_

‘ _Monty spent half the night asking him about his bike. Murphy tried to get him drunk but failed. Now he’s playing some stupid game that makes too much noise and is giving me a headache,’_ Raven responds and a moment later a picture pops up on Clarke’s screen. It’s a photo of Shaw, lying on their couch with a phone in his hands, smiling at the camera.

 _‘Sounds like a fun night,’_ Clarke replies before adding: _‘_ _Also, t_ _ell your BOYFRIEND I said hello.’_

She expects either a middle finger emoji, a deflection, or some kind of sarcastic response, but a moment later Raven’s reply pops up, and Clarke's mouth drops open:

_‘Shaw says hi.’_

“Fucking finally”, Clarke mutters to herself proudly.

As Clarke thinks of a good response, biting on her nail, Bellamy walks back into the room with a new book in his hand. He avoids Clarke’s eye as he sits back behind his laptop, throwing himself back into his work as if she's not even there. It’s back to business as usual for him, and all that's left for Clarke to do is lay around, bored out of her mind.

‘ _Don’t have sex on our couch please,’_ Clarke texts her roommate.

Raven just responds with: ‘ _No promises.’_

Clarke muffles her laugh with her hand. She can finally feel Bellamy’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, keeping her focus on her phone.

 _‘Fuck you,’_ Clarke types out. She means it in a jokey kind of way. 

Raven understands.

_‘Text me in a few hours so I know you’re still alive.’_

_‘No promises,’_ Clarke responds.

She stares at her phone for another minute, thinking of other ways to keep the conversation going with Raven, but nothing comes to her mind. And when Raven doesn’t message her anything else either, Clarke’s again stuck mindlessly scrolling through every app on her phone. When her battery hits dangerously low levels, she grabs a book from Bellamy’s coffee table and tries to get her brain to focus on the written words in front of her. 

Ten minutes later, and the silence is already killing her. She barely got through eight pages of the book before it became too tiring. Bellamy is so devoted to whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t even notice Clarke glancing at him every few minutes. 

Every time she turns to him, he’s either typing impressively fast, staring at the screen with a confused look on his face, or flipping through a book next to him. And he's always wearing the same focused expression on his face that Clarke might be starting to actually like. Somehow, she finds this studios silent Bellamy even hotter. She could totally imagine him as a mysterious young professor that all the female students, including herself, daydream about.

But she shouldn't.

When Clarke wakes up a few hours later, under a soft blanket, Bellamy’s still sitting behind his laptop, but now he’s surrounded with at least a dozen new books, looking just as lost in his own world as he was before she fell asleep. The only thing different is his hair that is much messier now like he’s been running his hand through it constantly for the last few hours.

Clarke reaches for her phone. It’s 6:36 pm. Her plan to sleep through the entire two days had failed. No surprise there.

“Would you like pasta for dinner?” Bellamy asks suddenly, the screen still reflecting in his glasses.

“Sure,” she tells him.

He clears his throat but remains seated. Neither of them moves.

Clarke remains sprawled on the couch for ten more minutes until her phone battery dies and she has to get her charger out of her purse. Bellamy is still staring at his laptop with watery eyes even as she gets up and leaves the room without a word. She expects to find him in the exact same spot when she comes back into the living room after taking a shower, but instead, she finds Bellamy bouncing around his small kitchen, singing something under his breath as he prepares dinner.

As Clarke watches him expertly chop vegetables, she debates whether she should volunteer to help. The only problem is: she’s useless in kitchen. It would probably be a lot quicker for him to make everything by himself than to have to explain stuff to her over and over again. And maybe he’s one of those people who hate help in the kitchen, who knows? Certainly not Clarke.

As soon as she settles on not helping, the silence between them starts to feel uncomfortable and one question pops up in her mind. It’s a question that’s been driving her crazy since this morning:

“This morning when you said I was trying to seem tough or whatever, why did you say it?” Clarke asks from the couch, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging them closer.

She can hear Bellamy chuckle, but he doesn’t turn to face her. “Why are you asking?” He asks just before he pours some kind of sauce into the pot.

She has to play this cool. Confident. Unbothered.

“I want to know what made you think that’s true.”

“It is true though, isn’t it?” he glances at her for a second, and she rolls her eyes at him. He turns back to the stove and continues: “I know because I used to do it all the time too. I used to push people away, pretend I can do everything by myself.”

Clarke watches his back, biting her nail.

“I only realized how fucked up it is when I noticed my sister was doing it too. She started pushing me away, and I got to experience the other side,” he explains as he continues to stir whatever is in that pot. “It sucks to be on the other side, Clarke.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that, so she checks her phone. It’s only at 10%.

She clears her throat. “So, how old is your sister?”

“She’s eighteen,” he says.

This ends up being the gateway into a long monologue about his sister, Octavia, but Clarke doesn’t mind because without much effort her part, he fills the silence with all kinds of stories, and all Clarke has to do is sit back and listen. She keeps her distance, asking more questions about his sister from time to time without ever crossing the line or leaving her place on the couch.

From what Clarke can gather in the end: they grew up together. Octavia was a rebellious teen and Bellamy was a stereotypical protective older brother so they fought a lot. Their relationship is still a little shaky since she moved to Polis for college, wanting some space from her brother, but it’s nothing like Clarke’s awful relationship with her mom. Not that Clarke would ever tell Bellamy anything about that.

The one thing that Clarke gladly learns about Bellamy is that he’s a fantastic cook. Once the pasta is done, the mere smell of it, makes her mouth water. When he joins her on the couch with two plates of pasta and two glasses of wine, Clarke gulps down her meal in record time.

”So why me? Out of all the guys on that fucking app,” Bellamy asks, sometime later, putting their empty dinner plates on the coffee table in front of them.

”Yours was the first profile that didn't make me want to kill myself,” Clarke confesses before downing the rest of the wine from her glass.

“What a compliment!” He laughs before pouring her another glass.“Don't make me blush, princess.”

She looks up at him and their eyes meet for a second. ”And you were a gentleman when you messaged me,” she tells him candidly.

He smiles at her.

He has dimples, she notices.

”The bar was set way too low though,” Clarke adds teasingly to break the tension.

”Figured,” Bellamy says, furrowing his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his wine. It’s his third glass, too. “You don't enjoy a good dick pic from time to time? _Shocking_ ,” he jokes.

She raises her eyebrows in pretend shock. ”A good dick pic? What does that look like?”

”If you want to find out, I can show you.”

She squints at him, hiding her laugh with the back of her hand. “I think you’re forgetting I’ve already seen your penis.”

“Believe me, I’m very aware you’ve seen it,” he tells her, suddenly looking away. “And that we slept together,” he adds. Clarke can’t figure out if his face is red from the alcohol or is he blushing. Either way, it’s adorable.

She takes another sip of her wine, carefully studying his profile as he’s leaning back, one arm tucked under his head, and his chin tilted up as he thinks. She wishes she could trace her hand on his sharp jaw or run her fingers through his soft hair. But she shouldn’t. Not again.

“We had sex last night,” Clarke says and it comes out in giggles. Her tolerance for alcohol is probably down from the fact she hadn’t gone out much in the last few months, but she’s not fully drunk yet, she’s only at that stage where everything feels kind of funny and tingly.

“We did,” he agrees, turning back to face her with a bright smile. “And it was hot.”

“And I don’t even know you,” she points out delightedly. Her head is spinning slightly, but she can see him nod. “This was my first time, you know.”

“What?” Bellamy’s eyes widen and he throws his arm over the back of the couch. His hand is so close to hers that it’s distracting. “No way!”

“I don’t mean it like that!” Clarke smacks his hand playfully as she giggles. “I’ve had sex before,” she tells him defensively and he laughs with her before she manages to explain what she actually meant: “It was my first one night stand.”

“Oh,” he nods in understanding. “Mine too.”

She purses her lips. “I’m serious, Bellamy.”

“I am too.”

“No way,” she waves her hand dismissively, leaning back on the couch.

“What?” He scoots closer to her, the space between them almost nonexistent now, and rests his face on his hand.

“I just don’t buy it. You seem like the kind of guy that does stuff like this all the time,” she explains.

His brown eyes are locked on hers and she finds it difficult to look away. “You kept saying that this morning too. Why?”

She half-shrugs. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type.”

“What is ‘the type’?”

She bites her lip.

‘Hot. Really hot and aware of it,’ she thinks.

But instead of saying that, she shrugs again, finding it really amusing how riled up he gets every time she suggests he might be a fuckboy. “Guys like you,” she says jokingly.

Her humor flies over his head. “Well, you just said it yourself: you don’t know me, so...” he looks off to the side, trying to seem unaffected.

She’s not fully aware of the words coming out of her mouth when she says: “I don’t, but that’s kind of the whole point.”

“Yeah, _thanks,_ ” he says sarcastically, pulling away from her.

“No, Bellamy,” she reaches for him as he starts to get up, “what I mean is I’m actually okay with not knowing anything about you.”

That’s not helping. At all.

“ _Cool_ ,” he looks to the watch on his wrist, “only thirty-four hours to go, right?”

“What’s your problem now?”

“Look, Clarke, you’ve been a jerk to me since this morning. I’m sorry that I can’t take it all the time. I need a break, okay?”

She raises her arms up in defense. “I was joking!”

But he doesn’t accept it. Just like that, he goes back to his place behind his laptop and begins to dig through another book, like Clarke doesn’t exist. Like she isn’t sitting only a couple feet away from him. Like all the progress they’ve made is gone.

Clarke’s fully aware she fucked up when she grabs the remote and turns on the tv. She flips through the channels for a while until she settles on some shitty reality tv show. A part of her hopes Bellamy would look up and comment on it, but when he doesn’t she decides to text her friends. She stares at the dead group chat, hoping someone would reply to her messages, but minutes pass by with no response. It seems like the only two people who seem to want to talk to her right now are her mother, who hadn’t stopped messaging her every hour since this morning, and some random girl from her Developmental Biology class who has questions about the paper Clarke was supposed to write today. She answers neither, deleting the messages instead.

It’s probably about 9 pm, and Clarke’s again fully sober, numbly staring at some gruesome TLC show when she feels a body plop down next to her. 

“What the fuck are you watching?” Bellamy asks at the same time she says “I’m sorry.” 

He looks slightly taken aback, so Clarke continues: “When I said I thought you seemed like the type to have girls over and sleep with them, what I meant was-”

“Look, I get it-” he tries to stop her, his lips curling.

“No, let me explain,” she insists, “what I meant was-”

“You don’t have to-”

“Let me say this, Bellamy-” she tries, but he cuts her off again.

“I know, princess, I’m just _too good_ in bed,” he’s obviously joking, but her cheeks are suddenly burning red.

“That is _not_ what I was going to say!”

“But are you denying it?” He raises his eyebrow in a challenge.

She huffs, frustrated. “You know what? I’m not even gonna answer that.”

“Not denying,” he notices, “ _interesting._ ”

She folds her arms on her chest and looks up at him decisively. “Was it good? Yes. Were there some insanely awkward parts? Yes.”

Bellamy lets out a chuckle in disbelief. When she doesn’t say anything else, his face drops a little. “Like what?” He asks, crossing his arms like he’s mirroring her.

“I’ve suppressed it. I’m not going to talk about it,” she says, acting like she’s suddenly interested in what’s on tv.

“No, Clarke,” he insists.“this is good. I _want_ to hear it.” 

She glances at him as he turns to her. “You said you don’t want to get to know me, but we have to talk about _something_ till this ends. You can give me your thoughts, and I’ll tell you my side, and then we’ll both get something out of this.”

“You’re turning this,” she motions between the two of them, “into a learning experience? Seriously?”

He pauses for a second, thinking. “Why not?”

“Alright. But my buzz is gone, and I’m not drunk enough to talk about this,” she tells him, making him get up and grab them beers from his fridge.

The cold beer slides down her throat nicely, and then another one. It’s about 11 pm, they’re watching some history documentary Bellamy put on and drinking every time he points out an inaccuracy, sitting probably way too close to each other, when she makes an announcement:

“I’m ready.”

It’s like he was holding his breath, waiting for this moment. “Okay, how do we do this? Do you wanna go first?” Bellamy asks as he quickly takes off his glasses and places them on the table before facing her. 

“Sure,” she clears her throat, trying to get herself to act seriously in such an absurd situation. 

“First of all, let me start by saying you’re a great kisser, you’re good with your hands when you’re using them. You can do so much more but you just let them sit beside you for no reason sometimes.” It’s not like she was making a list in her head while they were watching that crappy documentary. Not at all. 

“What? That’s not-” Bellamy tries to protest, but Clarke lifts her finger, not letting him interrupt her until she’s done.

“You also kept trying to give me a hickey which was weird, and I didn’t like it.”

“Is there anything you liked?” He asks, his tone annoyed.

“Don’t be dramatic, Bellamy. You were perfectly fine. It was just a bit awkward at times.”

“Yeah, it was,” he agrees. “Because you made it awkward.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s like you were nervous the entire time. I felt like you cringed every time I touched you. I get that this was your first one night stand, and you have this whole thing about not getting to know the other person or whatever, but you also didn’t have to shut me out the moment we were finished,” he says. Noticing the strange look on his face, he adds: “We were done and then you suddenly turned around, no words, nothing.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to cuddle,” she says with a laugh. 

Clarke expects Bellamy to chuckle along with her, but she sees how his brows furrow so she clears her throat to try to act serious again. 

“I’m sorry.” This is the second time she’s apologized this night. “I know I was weird. I didn’t know what was allowed and what was crossing the line into the romance category.”

“I’m pretty sure the having-sex part crossed the line, don’t you think?”

“No, sex is not inherently romantic,” she tells him.

He gives her an odd look. 

“At least I don’t think it is,” she says, but it comes out more like a question. 

This is why she likes to separate and analyze stuff in her head before it gets too confusing. All she knows for sure is that friends and sex don’t mix well, she already learned that in a hard way. But that’s not their situation, she and Bellamy are not friends, not quite. She was supposed to leave and never see him again, but that plan failed spectacularly, and now their situation is... too confusing.

Bellamy lets out a “hm” sound as he thinks about it too. “Is there anything else you’d like to say about me? I kind of cut you off there,” he asks after a moment.

Clarke looks directly into his eyes. “You make the funniest face when you cum.”

“This was a bad idea,” he says. 

“Definitely,” she agrees before they burst out laughing.

He’s still smiling as he casually runs his fingers through his curly hair, perfectly messing it up. Is it possible he’s doing it only because he figured out how much it turns her on?

“But at least now we know exactly what to avoid doing the next time,” she tells him.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows as he pulls the beer can away from his mouth. “The next time?”

“With other people,” she explains

“Oh.” 

Clarke could swear she saw his face fall for the briefest moment. 

“Yeah, of course,” he adds, clearing his throat.

“Did you think I meant-”

“I don’t know- no? No.” He’s definitely getting flustered. “It’s just- I don’t know.” He looks at her with wide eyes and she can’t help but laugh at his confused expression. 

“I think you do know,” she squints.

“Okay, yes,” he admits and she claps her hands together. “For a second I thought you were suggesting we have sex again. Happy now?”

“Very,” she tells him. 

His cheeks are slightly redder when turns away from her, all attention on whatever’s now playing on History channel. 

“It wouldn’t be that crazy, right?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the tv. “I mean, hypothetically, we could try to apply what we learned here tonight.”

“Right,” she says, still smiling. 

It’s actually not that crazy of an idea at all.

“What time is it?”

He looks to the watch on his hand. “Ten fifty-five,” he says, bringing his head up. “Thirty-one hours to go,” he lets out, more for himself. Clarke watches him and bites her lip as all the thoughts she’s been trying to avoid all day swarm her mind. She wants so badly to find a way to somehow be annoyed with him, to start a fight, to get her mind off of how hot he is.

He turns to her, “So, what do you want-” he lets out before she presses her lips to his. Her heart hammering in her chest, she slips her fingers at the back of his neck and pulls him closer. He kisses her back almost instantly, one of his hands slightly tangling her hair as the other drops down on her waist.

“-to do?” Bellamy finishes as they separate to breathe, their faces still only inches away. His brown eyes are dilated, pupils blown with desire.

“We can keep doing this?” Clarke suggests, raising her eyebrows. 

He looks lost, searching her eyes for a moment before their mouths meet again in a crushing kiss. It’s much more intense this time like he’s been wanting to do this the entire day as much as she has. The wind is gone from her lungs, and the only thing that matters is his lips on hers. And then, his tongue tracing her bottom lip. And then, his mouth on her neck as she lets out a moan. This time Clarke lets her hands get lost in his wonderful curly hair and his hands grip her waist, pulling her closer onto him until she’s straddling him, practically grinding on him.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Bellamy groans against her skin, pulling her as close as possible with such urgency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry for not updating in such a long time: at first, I had too much to study, and then a whole lot of shit happened in my country, but I'm back now!  
> I wanted you to know I didn't give up on this story so I'm posting this update at 3 in the morning (in case you're wondering why there are so many commas missing: it's because I've kind of given up on punctuation while editing this!!! Also, I generally rarely know where to put commas)
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> For any comments or constructional criticism you can reach out to me on tumblr ([gansxythethird](https://gansxythethird.tumblr.com)) or write down in the comments! Thank you so much! ♥


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much time writing this fic, but I wracked my brain trying to come up with a satisfying ending! Hope you enjoy!♥

A ray of sunshine filtering through the blinds wakes Clarke up. She hears the alarm clock and feels another body move in the bed right next to her. When she starts to open her eyes, she feels him placing a small kiss on her shoulder, whispering to her to go back to sleep. She doesn't know how much longer she sleeps until she wakes up next time.

In the kitchen, she sees Bellamy in an old sweatshirt, with his perfectly messy curly hair and his hands behind his back, as if she caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Without saying a word, he beams at her and when she feels her heart racing - she realizes she fucked up.

Here’s exactly how:

Having sex with Bellamy once was understandable: it was a one night stand. There was nothing else that needed to be said.

The second time, although some would argue the kicker, was still partially understandable. It was weird - yes. It made thinks unnecessarily more complicated - absolutely. But it wasn’t as crazy as sleeping with him for the third time.

_“What are you thinking about?” He whispered as they laid in their underwear, her hair spilled over his pillow, and he traced lines gently across her arm and her back._

_She couldn’t quite see him, the only source of light was a small ray of moonlight peeking through the blinds, but if she really tried, she could almost make out his profile; that sharp jaw and beautiful cheekbones sprayed with freckles, his long lashes, and a dimple on his chin._

_“I can’t sleep,” she confessed._

_“Thank god, me neither.”_

_“Well, what do you want to do?”_

_“Wanna go for a smoke?” Bellamy suggested with a devilish smile._

_“I didn't know you smoke,” Clarke told him._

_There were so many other things she didn’t know about him too._

_“I don't,” he said, sitting up and throwing on a shirt.“Come on.”_

_I was a mild mid-March night, and although there was a cold wind on the street that would tangle your hair, on the shielded balcony it felt like spring had come early. Clarke wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop herself from shivering as she stared at the almost full moon. Bellamy came out a minute later, throwing her a sweatshirt that smelled of his shower gel and detergent._

_She hesitated before pulling it on. “I do have a coat in there somewhere,” she pointed out._

_He shrugged. “Couldn’t find it,” he said before sitting down on the only furniture on the balcony: a small round table, leaving just enough space for Clarke to sit next to him._

_As she sat next to him, he handed her the pack and helped her light her cigarette. She was already coughing after the first drag._

_“So, you don’t smoke either,” he concluded, the corners of his lips curling in amusement._

_“Only when I’m drunk,” she said before meeting his eye.“What’s your deal? Why do you have a pack if you claim you don’t smoke?” She asked after watching him light his cigarette in silence. He coughed a little after his first drag too, and Clarke tried her hardest not to laugh._

_“My friend accidentally left them here, and I just forgot to throw them out.”_

_“Oldest excuse in the book,” she told him with a smile, playfully bumping his shoulder with hers. “I expected you to be more creative than that.”_

_“It’s such a thirteen-year-old’s excuse, I know,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh, running his free hand through his hair. “But the sad part is that it’s true.”_

_“Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you,” Clarke winked._

_He chuckled, and Clarke felt her heart flutter at the sound._

_She attempted to keep up with their small talk, ignoring her thigh pressed against his and the way his eyes sparkled in the moonlight until he finally put out his third cigarette, and they found themselves sitting in silence. She tried her hardest not to notice the look he was giving her before, the way his eyes fell down to her lips whenever she talked and how it caused her heart to beat faster. She ignored all the signs until she couldn’t ignore them anymore, until he reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. She knew even then that she was fucked, but she ignored it, suppressed it. And when they fell silent, and he finally kissed her, she kissed him back._

_It was only a brief kiss, a gentle press to her lips before Bellamy pulled himself back. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something, but fell silent again as his dark eyes searched hers. Clarke only managed to put out her cigarette before his lips were on hers again, and her hands flew up to his neck._

_It was a dance: one moment they kissed like they were in a rush, desperate to drown in each other, and the next, their kisses were sweet and slow, like they had all the time in the world._

_They kissed there on the balcony, his nose cold against hers, his arms wrapped around her until she broke away and said she was cold. Back inside his apartment, Bellamy suggested they watch a movie. She picked out the film and watched as he struggled to make popcorn on the stove, and she laughed at him for buying popcorn kernels instead of microwavable popcorn. And when he was finally done, they cuddled up next to each other on the couch._

_Clarke probably fell asleep sometime during the first half of the movie, her head on Bellamy’s chest and his hand playing with her hair. He woke her up in the same position after the movie ended, asking if she wants to go back to bed. She looked up at him, her head still slightly foggy, and kissed him._

In hindsight, Clarke knows she shouldn’t have slept with him then. It made things astronomically more complicated. She couldn’t justify this one with ‘needing to kill some time’, and it definitely didn’t feel as meaningless as the first one, or as passionate and spur-of-the-moment as the second one. The worst part is, Clarke wasn’t sure if and how it affected their relationship? Does he think she likes him now? Does she like him now?

Although she wouldn’t dare to answer any of these questions, as she watches Bellamy walk around the kitchen in the golden morning light, Clarke's suddenly very aware of how nervous seeing him makes her feel now.

“I borrowed your clothes, I hope it’s okay,” she tells him from the doorway, pulling on the oversized t-shirt she is wearing.

“Sure, princess,” he says and only then, Clarke notices the aquarelle set and blank canvases on the dining table behind him.

“What is this?”

Bellamy scratches the back of his head as he thinks of an explanation. “I noticed my book put you to sleep yesterday, so I found this somewhere. Thought you might use it to pass the time.”

“Bellamy,” she starts to protest, but he cuts her off.

“It’s probably more than a few years old,” he grimaces, approaching her. “I definitely didn’t use it since art class in high school.”

“Bell-”

He’s so close to her now, her heart beating fast when he takes her hands into his. “Breakfast first,” he winks, leading her towards the balcony.

“I waited so we could eat together,” he adds, pointing to the chairs he probably dragged from the dining room up to the table on the balcony. She sits in a chair that’s in direct sunlight as he brings her waffles and coffee, served like she’s in some kind of fancy bed and breakfast.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Clarke beams at him as she tastes the coffee: much better than yesterday.

Bellamy just shrugs instead of responding, and they dig in.

“What are you always typing on that laptop?” Clarke asks, leaning against the kitchen counter as she watches Bellamy wash dishes from their breakfast.

He looks up at her, smiling, but before he can respond the phone on the dining room table starts ringing. He excuses himself as he goes to grab it, and Clarke takes his place in front of the sink, only partially listening to his side of the phone call. 

“What do you want, O?” He asks. There’s almost a minute of silence before he speaks again.

“Yes, I did,” he says clearly and Clarke glances at him, meeting his eye for the briefest moment before he turns around. The next part isn’t as clear: “She’s cool, very pretty,” she makes out. A part of Clarke hopes he’s talking about her before she reminds herself she shouldn’t care.

“Why am I telling you any of this?” Bellamy asks loudly, making his way towards the balcony. Clarke can still clearly make out him saying “No you don’t,” and, “I think some stuff should better remain private,” before he steps outside, and then there are parts of the conversation that she accidentally overhears: 

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, she said she doesn’t want to-”

And then the rest is just mumbling until he walks back inside, looking drastically more annoyed than before. “Okay, have fun,” he tells the other person. “Bye-bye.”

“Was that your sister?” Clark asks.

“Yeah,” Bellamy replies before taking the sponge out of her hands. She hops up on the countertop, silently studying him as he furrows his eyebrows more and more. He was in such a good mood at breakfast, and now she was starting to lose him. 

“Where were we?” He asks. 

It’s obvious some part of that conversation upset him, but Clarke knows better than to ask him about it. Instead, she does her thing where she continues to act all cheerful, hoping her enthusiasm could eventually cause him to brighten up. She used to this a lot when her parents were upset, especially the last few months before her dad died.

“I asked you what you’re always typing on that laptop,” she explains.

“My master’s thesis,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “I sent the proposal and it just got approved by my mentor.”

“Oh _shit_ , that’s cool. What is it on?” 

“It’s only my first draft so I don’t have the official title yet.”

“The general area is enough for me,” she smiles sweetly.

“International security studies?”

She raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Analyzing the migration trends in the middle east through the prism of Galtung’s conflict theory.”

“Oh. _Cool_ ,” she says before adding: “I really thought you’d be more into history, judging by the book collection alone.”

“Oh, I am.” He tells her, his voice flat. “I’ve always been a huge history buff, but when it came to picking majors I thought-” his eyebrows furrow and he cuts himself off there. He looks up at her, a grim expression on his face.

“Actually, you probably don’t care about that,” he tells her firmly.

Her stomach drops.

“No, _I do_ ,” she gives him her best reassuring smile. “Go on.”

“ _Sure you do_ ,” he says sarcastically. “You said it yourself yesterday: you don’t want to get to know me.”

“I- I-” she stammers, not knowing how to explain herself. Maybe some things changed since she last said it. So much more changed since she last meant it.

“And I’m fine with that,” he continues. “I just don’t know why we’re still pretending.”

“You’re _fine with that_?” 

She shouldn’t be as upset as she feels. He’s just saying things that she said to him yesterday, so why does it hurt all of a sudden?

His face is cold, emotionless, as he continues to rinse his dishes. “Yeah. I am.” 

She gulps. “So, you don’t think we should get to know each other at all?” She asks like this is a new concept she needs to be clarified.

“Why would we?” He asks, finally looking up at her.

Their eyes meet and the silence is so deafening, Clarke could swear Bellamy can hear her heartbeat too. She’s going to be sick.

“We’re never gonna see each other again, isn’t that what you want?”

“Yeah, right,” she says, her voice low, as she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

Bellamy turns back to his dishes. Just like that: he’s shutting her out again like she’s not right next to him. And as minutes pass by, Clarke can’t stand the silence and the awkwardness so she gets up and leaves. She throws her body on his bed, wrapping herself up in his duvet. She hates that she likes how it smells just like him. 

She doesn’t know how long she lays there, her mind completely blank before she hears the floorboards creak and feels the weight of a person sitting down on the bed next to her. 

“Clarke?” Bellamy asks, his voice an octave lower than usual.

Clarke doesn’t respond at first. 

She didn’t think he would come to see her. He could’ve so easily avoided her for a couple more hours and kicked her out the moment lockdown is lifted. He wouldn’t even notice the difference, he’s always on that stupid laptop anyway.

“Look,” he starts, “I’m sorry if I was harsh.” He sounds like he’s debating whether to say anything else and then, much quieter, he asks: “Are you awake?”

She sits up, meeting his eye. “You were right; I said it,” she tells him. He looks a bit taken aback, but she continues. 

“And I still think we shouldn’t kid ourselves; we both know exactly _what_ this is,” she says, having absolutely no clue ‘what this is’. Although a part of her hoped something between them has changed, even if he just proved her wrong, they can still be just two strangers who happen to hook up and never speak to each other again. This can still be a one night stand, or a two-night stand, just like she wanted when she first messaged him.

Clarke waits for his reaction until finally, a few seconds later, he nods in agreement. “Yeah,” he says, his posture still tense and his jaw clenched. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh. Their eyes meet and Clarke doesn’t know what to do next.

“But it still doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk, right?” She asks hopefully, raising her eyebrows at him.

“I agree,” he says, giving her the smallest smile that makes her heart skip a beat. 

Her lips curl into a smile before she can control her facial expressions. There’s absolutely no reason she should be blushing the way she is right now, she doesn’t like him. She shouldn’t like him. 

“So,” she says, desperate to keep the conversation going, pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees, “why not history?”

He squints at her. “It’s kind of personal, you sure you want to hear it?”

“I’ll survive somehow,” she says, rolling her eyes at him. 

“It might sound cheesy,” he warns.

“I can take it.”

“So,” he starts, leaning back against the bed frame, “since I was a kid I always felt like I was supposed to do _something,_ be _someone,_ ” he tells her, the words slowly and carefully rolling off of his tongue. “There was always that sort of pressure, not form my parents' but-,” he shrugs and Clarke nods in understanding. 

“I knew I wasn’t gonna be the one to ‘change the world’, but I wanted to leave some kind of imprint. Do something that matters. And when I was picking a major I decided that history, no matter how much I love it, just wasn’t gonna get me there.”

“So, security studies,” Clarke trails off like it’s a question. 

“Absolutely not,” he chuckles. “I thought it sounded cool like I’d be doing something important once I’m done, but I’m almost finished with my master's degree and everything I can see myself doing with that degree is so insignificant.” 

He closes his eyes for a moment and his eyebrows furrow as he continues: “I don’t know who is that person that I’m supposed to be. I just know this isn’t it either.”

He meets her gaze for the briefest moment, Clarke only managing a reassuring half-smile, thinking of how he’s still sitting next to her, talking about some of the most uncomfortable and private things when he should be avoiding her, and how she’s so insanely grateful for that when he continues:

“Maybe I should’ve picked history. I certainly would have a lot less to study,” he adds in a much brighter tone. “You know I had the entirety of this world history encyclopedia memorized when I was in like second grade or something?”

“ _Wow_ ,” she teases, her voice careful, “so you’re like an actual nerd?” 

“Yeah, well...” he shrugs just as he meets her eye, “I was just about to say something, and then I realized I don’t know much about you. Are you in college or-?”

“I’m pre-med,” she tells him. “I know, _I know_. It’s _very_ impressive,” she adds in her best bragging voice only to get him to laugh. “I’m graduating this year unless corona screws that up for me.”

He tilts his head a little, corners of his lips curling. “How does a girl as artistically gifted as you end up in pre-med?”

“Looks like someone didn’t dig deep enough when they did their background check,” she says, using her ‘joke’ as an excuse to tap him on the shoulder playfully. When he looks up at her with his dark brown eyes, she gulps. No matter how hard she tries not to notice it, she can still feel the tension from their fall-out.

“My mom’s a doctor,” she explains. “I kind of got sucked into medicine because of my family’s expectations, especially my mother’s. But I don’t blame her, her mom is also a doctor. My dad’s parents too. Basically, almost everyone in my family is in medicine one way or another.”

“But not your dad?” He notices.

“No, he’s dead.”

“Oh,” he lets out. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know,” she shrugs casually. “And in case you feel too awkward to ask: yes, he was an artist. A damn good one.”

Bellamy nods in understanding. He looks like he doesn’t know how to respond, so Clarke continues: “He thought me how to paint. I only loved it because it was something we had in common, but since he died I just kind of lost interest,” she says, looking down at her hands. “I still do it sometimes, but it’s just not the same.”

She feels his eyes on her as his hand reaches toward hers to comfort her, but he pulls it back last minute. “That sucks,” he says so awkwardly, it makes Clarke almost burst out laughing.

“What?” He looks up confused. “I know it wasn’t the best choice of words, but it does suck,” he says, chuckling.

“It _does_ ,” Clarke agrees, hiding her laugh with her hand.

Bellamy shifts, making himself more comfortable on the bed. “So did you use watercolor, or?”

“Never, actually,” she tells him. “But maybe I can give it a shot.”

He beams at her. “I’m betting you’d be great at it.”

“Even if I’m not, it’s still better than reading that stupid book of Greek myths,” she says only to see Bellamy’s reaction. 

He rolls his eyes and nudges her with his hand playfully; at least it feels like they’re somewhat on the way to getting back to the way things were this morning.

Clarke would like not to think about it, pretend their fall-out never happened, but it did. And it’s important that it did: it reminds her that in less than twenty-four hours she’s free to go home. But although she’ll never see him again, she can still try to have fun while she’s still here.

It’s around six pm when Bellamy gives up on his work for the day and suggest they make pizza for dinner together.

By that point, Clarke had spent half of her day experimenting with watercolors and the other half distracting Bellamy from writing his master thesis. She asked him questions when she got too bored, turned on music and danced around the apartment, trying to get him to join her, and organized one of his bookshelves, possibly only making it worse than it was. Bellamy suggesting they make dinner together was his way of abandoning all hope that he can do something actually productive with Clarke around.

They’re a good team in the kitchen; Clarke doing only the things Bellamy explicitly asked her to do, like grating cheese, slicing ham, and trying not to get in his way too much as he does basically everything else. It’s not exactly a fair division of tasks, but Clarke’s not complaining because she gets to sit there once she’s finished with her two jobs, watching him knead the dough in a daze as she sips her white wine. And once the pizza finally is finished and in the oven, and the table is set, the two of them somehow end up sitting in front of the oven, excitedly watching their masterpiece cook.

“What would you be doing right now if there wasn’t a lockdown?” He asks, his eyes focused on the melting cheese inside the oven. The smell's already making their mouths water with anticipation. 

Clarke doesn’t have to think about the question too much before she responds. “Writing a term paper, probably. Maybe hanging out with my roommate, watching a movie, and possibly third-wheeling,” she sighs. “Maybe we’d go to the bar, I’d be the only single one and drown my sorrows in alcohol,” she adds the last part jokingly.

“Ah,” Bellamy chuckles, “so the possibilities are _endless_.”

“Precisely,” she says, taking a sip of her wine before asking: “What would your weekend look like if I wasn’t here?”

“Probably wouldn’t be _that_ different,” he admits. “Well, minus the sex part.” 

They both laugh, Clarke’s laugh slightly more hysterical since she moved on to her second glass of wine.

“But, seriously,” he continues, “I’ve been in such a social rut lately, I’d probably spend my entire weekend working and I wouldn’t even notice. Maybe I’d take a nap right about now, and wake up at midnight and just continue working.”

“Wow, you sure know how to let loose on the weekends,” she tells him sarcastically

He shrugs. “Or maybe I’d invite my friend Miller and his boyfriend for a drink, go to a bar, meet a cute girl.”

“Oh really?” She raises her eyebrow, intrigued by that last part. 

“Oh yeah,” he tells her playfully. “She’d be the only single person in her group and I’d buy her a drink so we can drown our sorrows in alcohol together.”

“Sounds kinda sad,” Clarke points out, her heart racing.

“It’s not,” he reassures her, his eyes glinting. “She’s a cute blonde, a little feisty, but we’d make it work.”

She beams at him. “Really? What else?”

“She’d drink her wine way too slow,” he says jokingly, scrunching his nose as he points to their glasses: his empty and hers half-full.

Clarke grabs her glass, downing all of her wine as Bellamy erupts in laughter beside her. “I was joking,” he tells her, “you didn’t have to do that!”

“I know I didn’t _have_ to do it; I wanted to.” She grins at him. “Now pour me another glass.”

He picks up the bottle, pointing at her with its’ cap as his lips curl into a fond smile. “ _Feisty_.” 

She shrugs as she offers her glass, her eyes locked on his as he fills it to the brim with white wine.

“Oh no, I think this is the last bottle of wine,” he says, suddenly frowning as he turns the bottle upside down over his glass and only a single drop comes out.

“ _Sucks to be you_ ,” she tells him jokingly, taking a sip of her drink before adding: “I don’t even like white wine that much.”

“Well in that case,” he says, playfully pretending to reach for her glass. She pulls it back just in time for him to miss, and they end up face to face, only inches apart. 

For a second he seems just as surprised with this development as her, and then Clarke places her hand on his leg, and his eyes fall down to her lips. She holds her breath, her heart hammering in her chest, trying to figure out if she’s just imagining or is he actually leaning closer when a loud noise pulls him away from her. 

Before Clarke can figure out what just happened, Bellamy’s already up on his feet, turning off the timer on his phone. “Dinner time,” he announces with a half-smile. 

Clarke grabs their glasses from the floor, pouring half of her wine into his glass before she stands up. 

They eat dinner at the dining room table this time. All throughout the meal Clarke attempts to maintain the casual flirtatious small talk as her mind works in overdrive, simultaneously trying to process what happened a few minutes ago on the floor. Would he kiss her if the timer didn’t go off?

After dinner, she sits down on the living room couch as Bellamy goes through his liquor cabinet. “Ouzo or whiskey?” He calls from the kitchen.

Clarke thinks she picked a lesser evil until Bellamy pours her a glass and it sets fire to her throat after the first sip. “That’s disgusting,” she grimaces, making him laugh.

He puts on a movie, some black and white classic, but all Clarke can focus on is Bellamy sitting slightly further away from her than before. All his moves, as he tries to make himself more comfortable, seem more mechanical, calculated, as if he’s scared to accidentally brush past her. Would it really be the worst thing it the world if they touched?

At some point during the movie, just as Clarke forces herself to pay attention, a phone goes off. It’s not until Bellamy’s handing her a phone that she realizes it’s her phone that’s ringing. She picks up just as Bellamy presses pause on the movie.

“Hey, Raven!” She says cheerfully only to be greeted by her friend’s worried voice.

“May I speak with the guy that's your taken you hostage?”

“What?” Clarke chuckles in confusion.

“You didn't check back in last night, so I got kind of worried,” Raven explains. “I sent you like a dozen messages this morning too, didn’t you see them?”

“Raven, I'm fine,” she tries to reassure her friend. “I left my phone on a charger and totally forgot about it.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_. I'm fine.”

There’s still doubt in her friend’s voice when she says: “I'd still like to talk to him.”

Clarke’s head is spinning slightly as she looks to Bellamy who’s sitting by her side on the couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, chuckling about something on his phone screen. 

“No way,” she says.

“Yes. Give him to me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t make me tell Abby where you are,” Raven warns.

Clarke gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right; I wouldn’t. But she’s been calling me non-stop to ask how are you, and I had to lie to her. Please call your mom, Clarke,” her friend tells her. “But first, let me talk to him.”

“Fine,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes as she taps Bellamy on his shoulder and hands him her phone. “My friend wants to speak with you,” she begrudgingly explains when she’s met with his confused expression.

She can’t make out Raven’s side of the conversation, but Bellamy sounds like he’s a thirteen-year-old being told off by his mom. Whatever her friend is grilling him about, Bellamy’s only giving her the short answers: “Yes.”, “No.”, “Of course.”, “No, she's great.”, “Will do.” and then, to Clarke, just before she hands her back the phone: “She asked for you now.” 

“Hey, Raven,” Clarke says.

What she really means to ask is: ‘what the fuck was that’. 

“So, the hostage-taker appears civil, but I don't know if I'm sold.”

“Yeah, he’s great. And he’s definitely not pointing a gun at me and forcing me to say these things, not at all,” Clarke says in the most monotone voice she can manage. From the corner of her eye, she can see Bellamy crack up.

“Continue to joke about it. It’s not funny at all,” her friend tells her.

Clark sighs, waiting for whatever’s she’s gonna say next.

“Okay here's the deal,” Raven says, finally getting to her point, “there's going to be a curfew at eight pm starting tomorrow. And since Shaw's flight to his hometown is delayed indefinitely, and the classes will be canceled, I thought we can maybe host a game night, but more like a game all-nighter.”

“Huh?”

“They’ll come before the curfew starts and leave the next morning once it’s lifted. Jasper and Monty already said they can bring their new batch of moonshine.”

Clarke pushes down that annoying part of her that wants to point how irresponsible that would be, instead she lest herself entertain her friend’s enticing idea. “Okay, _and_?”

“And I needed your approval before we invite people,” Raven says impatiently.

“So it's going to be just the couples,” Clarke realizes.

“Yes,” Raven admits. “But, if you want, you can invite the hostage-taker,” she suggests, her voice sarcastic as if she doesn’t believe Clarke would actually do it. And she’s mostly right; inviting him to hang out again goes against everything they’ve discussed earlier today. And yet Clarke finds it incredibly tempting.

“Fist of all, stop calling him that.”

“Prince Adam, then,” her friend says in that tone of voice like she’s incredibly proud of her reference.

“Which one is that?”

“The Beast from Beauty and the Beast,” she says excitedly as she could barely wait to explain it. “Get it? It’s because of the Stockholm syndrome which I was afraid you might have since you haven’t been responding to any of my texts.”

“ _No_.”

“Well, what's his name then?”

Clarke looks back at him, and this time he turns to her and meets her eye, giving her a light smile. “Bellamy.”

“Wait, I was joking, but now I gotta ask: _do you like him_?” Her friend asks, her voice almost a whisper. As if Bellamy can hear her through the phone, though Clarke’s only ninety percent sure he can’t.

“ _Raven_ ,” she warns. 

“ _Fine_ ,” Raven sighs in frustration. “I don’t know why you gotta be so complicated,” she says before adding: “Give me back _Bellamy._ ”

“No, we're not doing that again.”

“Just ask him what would it take to get him to come, Clarke.”

“I'm not doing that. He's probably busy anyway,” Clarke says, her voice quieter as she turns away to the side to avoid his eye.

“So hanging out with just the four other couples sounds better?” Raven asks rhetorically, not giving Clarke the opportunity to respond before continuing: “If you like him and don't want to invite him for whatever reason, I'll personally arrange for all the couples to make out at the same time with you in the room.”

Clarke hates her stupid coupled-up friends, she hates Raven for putting her in this situation, but most of all she hates herself as she explains the entire situation to Bellamy, asking him if he wants to come too, all while Raven listens in. 

He doesn’t react as awkwardly as Clarke was afraid he would.

“Uhm, sure,” he tells her straight away. 

Raven, who probably didn’t hear his answer, almost bursts Clarke’s eardrum by yelling: “Tell him there’s gonna be homemade moonshine!”

“So you probably heard that,” Clarke chuckles awkwardly, pulling her phone away from her ear and putting it between Bellamy and her.

He scrunches his nose. “I’m not a big fan of moonshine.”

“What about half a case of beer?” Raven suggests. At least Clarke doesn’t have to relay messages between the two anymore.

“ _Beer_?” He asks, intrigued. “What kind of beer?” 

“The finest craft beer money can buy!”

He looks at Clarke with a confused expression, and all she can do is shrug. 

“Seems like I have no choice but to accept,” he tells Raven, his dark eyes locked on Clarke’s.

Clarke gives him a brief smile as she brings her phone back to her ear. “You happy now?” She asks her friend.

“ _Very_ ,” Raven answers. “Are you?”

The thought of actually making a plan to see Bellamy after this lockdown is over makes her incredibly nervous, but in a good way, with butterflies in her stomach and her cheeks blushing at the thought. It’s getting harder for Clarke to convince herself she doesn’t have a crush on him.

“Yeah, it’ll be cool,” she tells Raven, trying to sound casual, before she remembers: “Hey, we’re actually watching a movie right now, so I’ll talk to you later, that okay?”

“Of course! Have fun!” Her friend’s voice rings out from the speaker as Clarke hangs up.

Bellamy doesn’t wait for Clarke to put away her phone before he starts: “If it’s weird for you, I can make up an excuse. I don’t _have_ to go to that party.” He seems slightly nervous, his eyebrows furrowed as he speaks, fidgeting with the glass in his hand.

“It’s not weird for me,” she tells him, smiling lightly until his words finally click in her head: “But if _you_ feel uncomfortable or don’t want to go,” she starts to add in a rush, as her cheeks burn bright red with embarrassment before he stops her.

“Nah, I trust you. It’ll be cool,” he repeats the words she told Raven.

And for a moment Clarke thinks that’s it. He agreed to come to the party, everything’s settled. But when he turns back to the tv, she notices he’s yet to unpause the movie. There are a few seconds of silence before he turns back to face her. 

“So, what exactly can I expect tomorrow night?” He asks, sounding slightly panicked. So Clarke tells him everything he needs to know about her friends, their competitiveness, and their love of beer pong and other drinking games. The two of them come up with tactics and strategies for dealing with all of them tomorrow, but as the amount of whiskey in the bottle decreases, their conversations shifts to other topics, much more personal topics. 

“We got engaged. Nobody knew,” Clarke says sometime later. She doesn't know how exactly they got to discussing her past relationships from talking about her friends, she just knows it’s too late to go back.

“It was her idea and at first she wanted to elope, but the more time passed by, the more she stopped wanting to talk about it. Then I realized there was someone else.”

”Oh,” he grimaces.

”She didn't cheat on me,” Clarke rushes to explain, “but I think she fell in love with her coworker- Costia. I don't blame her for her feelings, I just wish she told me earlier,” she tells him, and he nods sympathetically, encouraging her to go on. “Anyway we broke up,” she says, her voice cracking as she wipes away a tear from her cheeks. A deep sigh, and then: “Your turn.”

“My turn,” he looks at her confused, “to do _what_ exactly?”

“Tell me something about you, so I feel less miserable.”

“Can I tell you a miserable story of my own?”

She chuckles, still wiping all the tears from her face. “Please do.”

“So,” he says, taking a drink from his glass as he figures out the right way to start, “about a month ago my girlfriend broke up with me, and apparently, according to some of my friends, I ‘let myself go’, grew a beard, you know the cliche. But that’s more because I was busy working on my thesis proposal,” he tries to explain, but Clarke tilts her head and gives him a doubtful look. 

“I guess it got really bad. I mean, even my sister told me I ‘desperately need to get laid’, which is like so unbelievably uncomfortable,” he says, and Clarke slaps her hand across her mouth to keep herself from laughing. “ _Anyway_ , I got sick of it all two days ago and decided to shave and install that app, mostly just so they’ll stop with their bullshit.”

She nods. “That’s why I installed it too. My friend Raven told me I have to get out there, or whatever.”

He chuckles. “That Raven is really a character, huh?”

“She really is.”

“I wish they would just leave us alone, though.”

“Exactly,” Clarke says excitedly. “Like, _‘worry about your own goddamn love life for a change’_.”

“You get it,” Bellamy says, smiling fondly. Clarke's heart flutters as their eyes lock, and silence falls over the room. She decides to break the tension by asking the first thing that pops into her head:

“So why did your ex break up with you?” Probably not _the best_ thing she could’ve asked. 

He scratches the back of his neck, buying time to think of a reply. “She said she needed some time to focus on herself, not that I was holding her back, but whatever.”

“How long were you dating?”

“Half a year,” he says but it sounds like a question, “something like that. _Not too long_.”

She nods. “Do you think you’re over her?”

“Yes,” he shoots out without taking a second to think first.

The speed of his reply amuses Clarke in a way she can’t quite explain. “ _Wow,_ ” she laughs, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s just that- I was never that upset in the first place,” he starts to explain. “Yeah, I was surprised at first, it definitely came unexpectedly, but I’m alright,” he decides. “Are you?”

“I’m much better than I was,” she tells him, shrugging. “But, _you know_ , it still hurts to talk about it.”

“Figured,” he nods. “Wanna change the subject?”

She claps her hands together. “I would love to!”

“Great,” he chuckles, stirring whiskey in his glass before looking up at her again. “Why were you arrested?”

She expected that question. Ever since she made that offhand comment while trying to get away yesterday, she had a feeling it’d come back and bite her in the ass. But instead of answering, she waves it off. “No, something else.”

“Come on,” he whines almost like a child, scooting closer to her. “I’ve been waiting for so long to ask.” 

She shakes her head. “What’s your favorite color?”

He hesitates for a second, frowning a little before answering. “Blue. What’s yours?”

“Green,” she shoots out. And then another question: “What was the first pet you ever had?”

“A parrot named Hercules. You?”

“A turtle,” she says. “I don’t know if he had a name.”

Bellamy scrunches his nose. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Yogurt and cherry. Yours?”

“Chocolate.”

“ _Wow_ , you’re basic.”

He purses his lips. “Why were you arrested?”

“We’re not doing that.”

“Why?”

She folds her arms on her chest. “Why _weren’t you_ ever arrested, huh?” She asks jokingly.

“ _Great comeback_ ,” he deadpans. “Who says I wasn’t?”

“Were you?” She asks.

His mouth drops. “Of course not!”

“ _Nerd_ ,” she says but there’s a fondness in her voice as she rests her head against the back of the couch.

“Just tell me, _Clarke_ ,” he says, his voice almost desperate as he leans back, almost mirroring her pose.

His face is really close to hers now, his dark brown eyes focused on her. Clarke knows it’s her time to ask a question but all she can focus on how cute all the freckles on his face are, how plump his lips are, and how much she likes the way he says her name.

“Do you regret this?” She asks suddenly before she can stop the words from coming out of her mouth.

“ _This_?” Bellamy asks, and she nods to confirm. 

He only thinks about it for a moment. “I don’t.” He sounds so decisive. “I got to meet you and to get invited to a party with free booze tomorrow. I have no complaints.” 

Clarke chuckles, her heart racing. “So, the party’s all you care about, huh?” She asks jokingly.

“Yes, I actually only invited you here in the first place so we could get locked up together, and your friend will make you invite me to a game night with people I have never met and promise me free alcohol.”

She squints. “You’re a sick genius.”

He laughs, she shrugs casually, but once their eyes meet again his expression is suddenly more serious. She continues the joke, barely holding in her laugh: “I can’t believe this whole time you were just using me, and not even for my body, no, for half a case of craft beer.”

“I do like craft beer,” he says, looking at her intently. “I also,” he pauses, still studying her face, and she holds her breath as she waits for him to finish his sentence, “like _you_.” 

She raises her eyebrows, no longer joking around. “What do you-”

“I know you said you don’t want us to ever see each other again, but I think you’re a really cool and interesting person,” he says like he’s been holding his breath too.

She feels like her chest is going to explode.

“You’re also hot,” he adds, his tone lighter. “Literally the one bad thing about you is that you won’t tell me why you were arrested, and now I’m kind of starting to worry you might actually be a killer.”

“The one bad thing?” She repeats with a nervous laugh, her cheeks burning.

“Look, maybe I don’t know you that well after only two days,” he tells her. “but I know I felt comfortable enough to tell you some things I never told anybody else. And I know you got a little bit of an attitude problem, and probably some emotional baggage too, but who doesn’t? And you were really mean to me at first, but I’m not gonna lie, that was kind of hot too in a weird way I don’t want to explain right now. Also, I really like it when you wear my clothes.”

He looks at her, waiting for a reaction. Her mind is somehow both completely blank and racing at the same time, trying to come up with anything to say.

“Did I mention you’re really hot?” Bellamy asks jokingly, probably in an attempt to break the silence and hide his growing nervousness.

Clarke only has one question: “What happens between us when this is all over?”

“I would like to see more of you, take you out on a date or something,” Bellamy suggests, his tone hopeful. “But I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

He gulps. “Do you regret this?” He asks, but she knows what he means to ask her is if she likes him too.

She shakes her head. “I don’t regret it,” she says calmly. 

The other unasked question remains unanswered, but she sees the relief wash over his face. She’s about to say something else, probably about how she likes him too, or maybe make a stupid joke about how they’re not even officially dating and yet already basically living together for another few hours, but instead, Bellamy leans closer and presses his lips to hers. She instinctively pulls him closer, breathing in his scent, sinking into the kiss as her hands come up to cup his cheek. His lips are soft on hers, smiling slightly, and it makes Clarke’s head spin worse than half a bottle of whiskey. They kiss like that, like all day they’ve been waiting just for this, until she finally forgets what was she going to say in the first place. 

On the third morning of what was supposed to be her first one night stand, Clarke wakes up wrapped up in Bellamy’s arms, his sleeping face inches away from hers. She sees his eyelashes flutter as the alarm clock goes off and whispers his name, gently tracing her finger on his cheek and jaw. Instead of getting up and getting to work like he usually does, Bellamy lets it ring, pulling Clarke closer to him and placing a sleepy kiss to her forehead.

“Let’s just lay for a couple more minutes, okay?” He murmurs, his voice hoarse, and Clarke feels her heart melt. Maybe she could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This took forever to write only because I was constantly distracted by other things (I binged two entire tv shows in the last few days), but I loved every moment of writing it! This is my second fic, and I really hope you liked it! I might have some more ideas for future bellarke fics, some more complex than the other, they might take a lot of time, but I'll try my best.♥
> 
> If you want to, go check out my other story: [Shortcuts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191180/chapters/55514791)
> 
> For any comments or constructional criticism you can reach out to me on tumblr ([gansxythethird](https://gansxythethird.tumblr.com)) or write down in the comments (it means so much!)! Thank you! ♥
> 
> May we meet again.♥


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